


passionfruit

by yoogiboobi



Series: a place to return to [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, atsumu: quietly kisses kita, kita: is quietly kissed (◡ˬ◡♡)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26682703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoogiboobi/pseuds/yoogiboobi
Summary: “Yer messin’ up my hair,” says Shinsuke, as he feeds Atsumu a piece of sweet mikan over his shoulder, but, again, it’s not an objection. Just an observation.—It's Sunday afternoon.Shinsuke slices fruit.Atsumu kisses his hair.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Series: a place to return to [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974127
Comments: 38
Kudos: 232





	passionfruit

**Author's Note:**

> Mikan: a kind of citrus similar to tangerines. Originally from China, popular in Japan.
> 
> Disclaimer: no passion fruits are actually mentioned in this fic. only fruit and passion.

— 

Billowy curtains catch the autumn breeze that enters through the cracked window. A knife clicks softly against a wooden cutting board, slicing through a piece of apple. There’s music playing from the radio, so low it’s hard to tell it apart from the sound of trees rustling outside.

Absorbed in his self-assigned task, Shinsuke is slicing apples in the kitchen. Head tilted downwards, late afternoon sunlight kissing the gentle slope of his nape and the very top of his head, well-worn black apron tied around his waist—an old gift from Osamu.

From the door, Atsumu watches. He’d helped Shinsuke picking those apples from the orchard earlier that morning. Then he’d fallen asleep on the couch after lunch, with Shinsuke reading next to him and stroking his hair, and woken up just a few minutes ago, with a sleep-addled brain, but sans Shinsuke.

“Are ya goin’ to help, or are ya goin’ to keep standin’ there ‘til I’m done?” Asks Shinsuke, eyes never leaving the knife in his busy hands.

Atsumu thought he’d made a good job of walking undetected to where he is now, but very few things get past Shinsuke, particularly not his almost-as-tall-as-the-doorframe boyfriend blocking the way out of the kitchen. Cover blown, Atsumu walks up to Shinsuke, slow, tile flooring cold against the naked soles of his feet, and wraps his arms around Shinsuke’s middle from behind. Shinsuke accommodates him, wordlessly.

Atsumu’s lips replace the sun on the crown of Shinsuke’s head, where it’s the roundest. Where Atsumu doesn’t have to bend down to reach, because he’s the perfect height to kiss it. Where it’s warm from the sun, where he’s able to feel the scent of his shampoo mingled with the scent that has always belonged to Shinsuke. Where his hair twirls clockwise, and where it stands on end when he wakes up in the morning, white tufts of hair that gain a life of their own overnight. It’s one of his favourite parts of Shinsuke to kiss; Atsumu’s own resetting point. Be it a good or bad day, a kiss to the top of Shinsuke’s head and the world feels a little bit brighter.

“Yer not helping,” Shinsuke comments after a moment, after he realizes Atsumu has every intention of staying there, holding him, kissing his hair. It’s a mute remark, though. If he really needed help he would have brought out another cutting board and knife for Atsumu by now. Instead, he reaches for a mikan, which Atsumu had also helped picking, and starts peeling it with no further comments.

Atsumu presses one, two, three kisses against the top of his head instead of replying. Then, with a purr of satisfaction, turns his head and rests his cheek where his mouth had been, feathery soft white hair tickling his skin and catching on his Sunday stubble. He moves his cheek around in slow circles, until he’s nuzzling the side of Shinsuke’s head like an overgrown, affectionate cat.

“Yer messin’ up my hair,” says Shinsuke, as he feeds Atsumu a piece of sweet mikan over his shoulder, but, again, it’s not an objection. Just an observation.

So Atsumu keeps doing it. He nudges the hair behind Shinsuke’s ear aside with his nose so he can press his lips against the skin underneath, basking in his scent once again. He stays there, pressing lazy kisses to that same spot repeatedly, eyes shut. Only pulls away to do the same thing on the other side. Beneath the light cologne he wears occasionally, Kita Shinsuke smells so good. Atsumu is one of the few people in the world who are aware of that fact. He’s certainly the only one who’s allowed to experience it this closely. Lucky him.

Shinsuke sweeps the pile of chopped up fruit into a large glass container with his knife. He likes picking fruit from the orchard and eat it just like that, with no added flourishes, but on rare occasions such as today, he enjoys taking his time to slice the fruit, put it into a bowl, and mix it with crushed mint and lime juice. Judging by the wooden mortar and the pestle placed next to the sink, still stained green, he’d taken care of that last part before Atsumu got here.

“Stop that,” he says, paired with a shrug of his shoulder, an attempt to dislodge Atsumu from where he’s moved to nosing at the corner of his jaw, breath puffing against the side of his neck. Atsumu knows from breathing down his neck so many other times, and seeing Shinsuke curling in on himself as a result, that it’s a sensitive spot. It tickles. Just a little weakness of his; Atsumu has them all mapped out in his mind.

With a low chuckle, Atsumu squeezes his middle and stretches a bit further to plant a kiss on his cheek, skin soft and giving against the hard press of his mouth. Shinsuke shoos him away with dripping, sticky fingers. Atsumu returns his lips to their original spot at the top of his head and stays there, eyes closing again, noticing how loud the birds have gotten now that the sun is closing in on the horizon. They like to gather outside and sing at the end of the day; hundreds, thousands of them, perched among the foliage of the old ginkgo tree that grows on the corner of Shinsuke’s property. The tree is older than both of their ages doubled and combined; its leaves are beginning to turn golden at this time of the year, the same colour Atsumu wears on his hair, as Shinsuke had noted once.

Having sliced his last piece of fruit, Shinsuke sweeps it into the container to join the rest of it. There are apples, pears, mikan, the season’s very first, and a few late-blooming peaches, all picked from Shinsuke’s small orchard over the course of the weekend. He pours the lime and mint mix into it, stirs it with a spoon, and places a lid over the container so the apple doesn’t oxidize. Then he moves to the fridge and places the container inside, as it’s still a bit early for dinner.

Arms still clung to his middle, Atsumu waddles behind him. Shinsuke lets him. Bare feet clicking against the tile flooring, they make their way around the kitchen together. Shinsuke gathers the utensils he’d been using and washes them in the sink. Atsumu watches from over his shoulder in silence. It’s not that he doesn’t feel like talking. It’s just that he’d woken up from his nap with his head feeling so pleasantly quiet, filled with such a blissful sort of contentment, that he doesn’t feel the need to. A rare occurrence, but a welcome one nonetheless.

Shinsuke dries his hands after he’s set the dishes in the drying rack, signaling the end of his task, and only then does he turn around in Atsumu’s hold. Hazelnut eyes look up at Atsumu, hands come up to rest against his chest, over his heartbeat, the touch warm through the threadbare fabric of Atsumu’s old shirt. His hair is mussed from Atsumu’s loving nuzzles, delicate webs of white hair sticking out the side of his head, so Atsumu pats them down with his hand and a smile. Shinsuke leans into the touch.

He brushes Shinsuke’s bangs away from his forehead and hugs Shinsuke closer so he can press his lips against his hairline. Shinsuke’s hair is thin, abundant, and very soft, part of the reason why he’s so susceptible to static electricity; but it’s the softest right there, along his hairline, down his temples and across the expanse of his forehead, baby hairs as wispy and fluffy as baby feathers. Always hidden from sight behind his bangs, it had taken Atsumu a little longer to find it, but it became another one of his favourite spots to kiss as soon as he did it the first time.

Shinsuke has his eyes closed as Atsumu kisses his way down his face—his temple, eyelids, cheek, and jaw, until he reaches the corner of his mouth. Atsumu tilts his head in whichever way he desires and Shinsuke lets him, content with being on the receiving end of the affection.

Atsumu loves kissing the top of his boyfriend’s head. He loves kissing his hairline. But he loves when Shinsuke kisses him full on the mouth the most.

A hand cups the back of Atsumu’s neck, nudges him to close the short distance between their lips. Atsumu goes willingly and lets Shinsuke take the lead from him. Shinsuke tastes like pears and Atsumu tastes like mikan.

The apron comes off and they move from the kitchen to the couch again. For every touch of lips Atsumu had pressed against his head, Shinsuke returns fivefold, tenfold, until their lips are red as apples. Until the moon comes out, until the birds singing give way to the first sounds of the night, until warm shadows turn into shades of blue, colder in theory but no less warm in this space where they exist together. Until it’s time for dinner.

—

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [twitter ♡](https://twitter.com/yoongoboongi) | [ graphic for this work](https://twitter.com/yoongoboongi/status/1320141202377900033?s=20)
> 
> edit: this drabble now has companion pieces, which you can find in the following parts of this series!


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